Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I need to talk to Santos about his plans to remove the De Léon name from the company. How is he able to do that? What does he have on my father that he has so much power?
I dab on lipstick then tuck the tube into my purse and choose one of the bottles of perfume. I spray it into the air and sniff and am about to test another when the clicking of shoes signals someone walking in behind me. I assume it’s Ana, so I don’t bother turning or even looking at the reflection in the mirror, so I’m startled a moment later when the woman steps up to the counter beside me.
“This one’s my favorite,” she says, picking up one of the bottles and holding it out to me.
I look up to find the younger woman from that family standing closer than necessary. I’m caught off guard and find myself staring for a long, awkward minute. I could see from across the room that she was beautiful, but close up, she’s stunning.
“He’ll like this one.” She smiles, although it’s not a real one. She’s studying me, taking in every detail of my face. She’s about an inch taller than me with palest blond hair pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She’s so close I can see the pins that are holding it in place, and I wonder if it hurts.
I register what she just said but don’t really know how to respond. She puts the bottle down and takes a lip gloss out of her clutch. I watch her in profile as she turns her attention to her reflection to reapply. I get the feeling she’s giving me time to look at her, to see her.
Each of her features is perfect independent of each other, and it makes for an almost unreal, inhuman beauty, the kind that hurts to look at. Once she’s satisfied with the gloss, she drops the tube back into her clutch and turns her cornflower blue eyes to me. I’m still staring. Her skin is the palest, smoothest ivory. Her eyelashes are thick and dark with mascara and it makes the pale of her skin and the blue of her eyes that much more striking.
Her pink glossed lips stretch into a wide smile. She’s used to people staring. I can tell, and it somehow takes away from her power. I clear my throat as she steps slightly back to look me over fully, taking her time. I don’t know if she doesn’t realize how awkward it is or if she just doesn’t care.
“So, you’re the girl Santos married. Madelena, right?” she asks, tone soft and sweet like you’d expect someone who looks like her to sound. But I know there’s nothing soft or sweet about her. She’s dangerous.
I nod. I’m not easily flustered. I know how to deal with women who don’t like me. But this is different than that. “And you are?”
“Camilla,” she says, extending her hand toward me—not to shake it, but the way a royal might hold out her hand to be kissed. I don’t. “Camilla Avery. Maybe you’ve heard the name?”
I don’t like her. I wouldn’t trust her with a kitten. “Can’t say I have.”
“Oh, that’s surprising.” She makes a face like she truly is surprised, but I already know that everything this woman does is calculated. “Santos and I go way back. I thought for sure he’d have mentioned me.” I shake my head again. Her face falls. “Well, my father did have a greater influence in his life, of course. Commander Avery? Alistair Avery. Ring any bells in there?” I almost expect her to tap the side of my head.
“No, sorry to disappoint you,” I say, irritated and not sure what she wants with me. I just want to leave.
“Well, Santos knew him as the Commander, of course, so maybe…” she trails off, shrugging.
Ana enters the room, halting when she sees Camilla. It takes her a moment to recover. “There you are,” she says cheerily, again acting as if we are friends, except that this time I’m glad to see her.
Camilla spares her the briefest of glances as if Ana isn’t quite worth the trouble, before returning her attention to me.
“You should ask him about the Commander. I’m sure he’ll want to tell you all about him. My father was a sort of mentor to Santos for a good five years. The defining years, he used to say. He was only eighteen when he came to live with us, you know.” She says it almost wistfully.
“I’ll be sure to do that. Excuse me,” I say, wanting to get away from her. I manage to take a step, but just as I do, another door opens near the empty attendant’s table. A man enters. My heart races and adrenaline rushes through me, the warning to flee blaring like a siren in my head. But I remain still, rooted to the spot because I’m not sure I’ll be able to get past these two.